


The Sound of Distant Thunder

by dark_nexus17



Series: Little Company [1]
Category: Whitechapel (TV)
Genre: Gen, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Pre-Slash, Unrequited Crush, Unrequited Love, british weather
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-02
Updated: 2015-07-02
Packaged: 2018-04-07 08:54:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4257198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dark_nexus17/pseuds/dark_nexus17
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s a warm and incredibly muggy day in summer and Emerson Kent knows that he’s got less than a minute until the small drops of rain he can feel hitting his skin turn into a fully-fledged London downpour. And he’s left his keys inside.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sound of Distant Thunder

**Author's Note:**

> Title: The Sound of Distant Thunder
> 
> Pairings: Chandler/Kent pre-slash.
> 
> Warnings: Spoilers for all 4 seasons of Whitechapel. Kent’s pining of epic proportions. Mentions of behaviours associated with OCD. Alcohol mentioned as a coping mechanism. Mild swearing.
> 
> Summary: It’s a warm and incredibly muggy day in summer and Emerson Kent knows that he’s got less than a minute until the small drops of rain he can feel hitting his skin turn into a fully-fledged London downpour. And he’s left his keys inside. Set post season 4. 
> 
> This is my first piece of fanfiction for Whitechapel. I watched the series about a year ago, and it hasn’t left me alone since. After devouring all the fanfiction I could find for the show I decided that I’d try writing some of my own. Sorry if it’s a bit naff. Any mistakes are entirely my own fault. Also I don’t own Whitechapel, although I wish I did, then we could have a fifth season. Let me know what you think! (Please)

***

It’s a warm and incredibly muggy day in summer and Emerson Kent knows that he’s got less than a minute until the small drops of rain he can feel hitting his skin turn into a fully-fledged London downpour. Unfortunately it’s the end of shift and he can be 100 percent sure he’s going to get soaked on the way back to his flat. He reaches into his pocket, fishing around for the keys he could’ve sworn he’d shoved in before he left his desk not five minutes earlier. With a heavy sigh and thunder rumbling in the background he heads back inside the building. A flash of lightning cuts across the office as he enters, illuminating the previously darkened space for a moment and silhouetting DI Joseph Chandler in the act of tidying up everyone else’s rubbish. Kent pauses for a moment, watching. The boss looks like a deer caught in the headlights, if deer were tall, blonde, suited, and impossibly attractive. The young DC shakes his head slightly, as if trying to rid himself of that last thought. Finally, Chandler speaks.

“Hello Kent, I thought you’d left already.” He’s still holding the bin under his arm.

“Yeah, just forgot my keys.” Kent replies, moving across the room to his desk, which unlike the rest of the incident room, with the exception of the DI’s office, is impeccably clean. He places his helmet down on the desk and opens the top draw. His wayward keys stare back at him. Picking them up, and shutting the draw carefully, he turns back to face the boss, who’s stood still, looking as though he’s been caught in a compromising position. That thought opens up all kinds of avenues in Kent’s head, and he closes his eyes for a second, allowing them to dissolve in the momentary blackness. When he opens them again he takes a better look at the other man in the room. The boss has got deeper shadows under his eyes than you’d expect in a week where the most exciting thing they’d had in was a straight-forward drug-related stabbing. Then again, Kent has his own demons that keep him up at night. The DI looks burdened, somehow smaller in the semi-dark of the office, lit only by the light of the corridor and the occasional flash of lightning. Speaking of the weather, Kent can hear the rain he’d predicted, bouncing off the outside of the building.

“Anything I can do to help, Sir?” he asks tentatively, his hands fisting around the bunch of keys he holds. He’s more nervous about talking to the boss these days. They’d never been quite right again, or as right as they ever were, after Morgan Lamb, and his spat with Mansell had only increased the tension between them, born out of too many unsaid things. Not to mention that the boss’ obsessive tendencies had been getting progressively worse for a while now and the Abrahamians case had only pushed him further towards whatever edge he was near to. Kent knew that Miles was still trying to put him back together after the van incident but Miles had his own things to deal with: his family, especially his youngest, not to mention the Sergeant’s increasing obsession with tracking down Louise Iver, the Provocateur.

“No, thank you.” Chandler’s voice startles Kent from his thoughts.

“If you’re sure, I was going to try and wait out the rain.” He says, though they both know that the watery torrent outside won’t slow for at least half an hour.

“No, no, it’s fine, I was just finishing up here and then I was going to head home myself.” And if that’s not a lie then Kent is an awful Detective Constable and will hand his things in tomorrow.

“Okay, Sir, see you tomorrow then.” Kent heads towards the door, but stops as he spots an empty crisp packet in his path. He picks it up and walks towards the DI, who’s still holding the bloody bin like a shield or something.

“Thank you.” Chandler says softly as Kent places the packet carefully into the bin. Another flash of lightning brightens the room and the younger man catches the eye of the man in front of him. Kent didn’t realise they were this close until just now. From this position he can smell the Tiger Balm that Chandler has been rubbing into his temples all day in an attempt to reign himself in. He can see the dark half-circles under the taller man’s eyes, the creases that are marring his forehead and the area around his mouth. He swallows.

“Is everything alright, Sir?” he asks, the question slipping from his mouth before he has a chance to decide whether or not it’s appropriate for him to ask. From the silence that follows he thinks that maybe it wasn’t. He steps back suddenly, cursing himself for his carelessness. The boss was already under so much stress, he didn't need Kent’s hero-worship-come-affections weighing him down as well, not that he would ever notice the extent of the young DC’s feelings. He turns round, planning to leave Chandler stood there in the darkness.

“No.” The word, spoken so quietly Kent’s not sure that he didn’t imagine it, makes him still. He waits.

“How do you cope?” These words are a little louder, laced with pain, and a longing so deep it makes Kent ache. He turns around slowly.

“Well, Sir, I’m sure you’ve heard that I have a bit of a cry sometimes when things get a bit too much.” He answers with a self-deprecating shrug. It’s an open secret, like most of the secrets in the incidence room. Although he can’t quite believe he’s just told someone, out loud.

“Does it help?” Kent considers the question for a moment.

“Sometimes, Sir. Sometimes you can have a good cry and everything seems better. Sometimes you just cry until you can’t cry anymore, and you’re no better off.”

“And what do you do when it doesn’t work?” the DI asks.

“Talk to my sister, to my mum, to a friend.” Kent replies. Or at least he used to; lately he’s been pushing everyone away. “That or I have a drink or two and try to get some sleep.” He adds. A bit of sleep would probably do wonders for the boss.

“I’m afraid I’m not very good at just having a drink or two.” Chandler says. Kent knows what he means, remembers various situations where he’d caught a glimpse of the DI drinking alone in his office. He’d asked Miles about it once, who’d told him that it was one of Chandler’s ways of coping with his OCD and other things, and then told him to stop being a nosey bugger and to mind his own bloody business. The usual mix of crass and care.

“It’s easier if you’ve got someone to drink with, to keep an eye on you.” Kent says. Chandler makes a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat, eyes cast down towards the floor. Kent wants nothing more than to be able to reach out and offer comfort to the other man, but he knows the DI wouldn’t take it well, so he doesn’t. What he does do is put his helmet down, and walks over to Chandler to gently take the waste bin from his grip. Surprisingly, his boss lets it go with little fuss.

“I’ll finish up here, Sir.” He says quietly. “Then I’d best be getting home.”

“Yes, of course.” Chandler murmurs, as Kent moves away to pick up the rest of the detritus scattered throughout the room. When he turns to say goodbye the Detective Inspector is in the same spot he left him in, seemingly deep in thought.

“Goodbye, Sir.” He says. Chandler seems not to have heard him as he asks;

“Would you like to go for a drink?”

Kent is shocked into silence for a good five seconds, long enough for the boss to look flustered.

“Never mind, I shouldn’t have asked.” Chandler says, turning towards his office.

“I’d love to.” Kent says. Repeating Chandler’s own words from what seems a long time ago. They never did go for that drink. The boss spins back around, the shadow of a smile on his face.

“I’ll get my coat.” He says.

As they exit the building, a clap of thunder sounds above their heads, reminding Kent of the storm outside. He doesn’t feel the rain.

***

**Author's Note:**

> Well there it is. I hope you enjoyed it. Please let me know.


End file.
